


How Long Does the Wick Burn

by Grand_Phoenix



Series: Warcraft Drabbles, Short Stories, and Other Such Things [15]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: But not quite, Character Study, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, I really don't like Nathanos, and about as close to a self-insert than the rest introduced so far, but even so I will try to make him and all others like him work, the OC is another mouthpiece, to some degree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 22:58:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14725208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grand_Phoenix/pseuds/Grand_Phoenix
Summary: Before it runs its course? Will it still keep on burning to eruption, or will it peter out in a puff of smoke? (Or, a Forsaken soldier tries to talk some sense into and makes some sense out of Nathanos.)[per-BfA, pre-Before the Storm]





	How Long Does the Wick Burn

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think there's been a character in _Warcraft_ in all the years I've been playing the game that I've ever really 'hated'; Jaina doesn't count because I was more under the impression she was going to get what was coming to her following her madness in light of Theramore's bombing...which she kind of does, at the start of BfA. Garrosh was close because of his actions during _Mists of Pandaria_ , but by the time he wound up getting killed by Thrall in _Warlords of Draenor_ , I was mostly disheartened by the fact that this guy could've learned from his father's crimes and gotten out of his shadow so he could be his own person...but I always found Garrosh to be a very easily influenced person who banked very, very hard trying to reestablish the Old Horde's glory days and being such a stubborn shit to ignore everything everyone that wasn't an orc that appealed to him was trying to tell him. It's kind of depressing, when you think about what he could have overcome and what he could have been, but that fault lies (more) on him as much as it does on Thrall for not taking responsibility when things went south. But I never hated Garrosh, just annoyed with his MUH TRUE HORDE mentality.
> 
> No. No, that first place prize goes to Nathanos Marris. I hate this guy. _With a fucking passion._ I've seen people laud this guy for not being in line with everyone else where it concerns them congratulating you for saving the day/the world/your dog or whatever...and that's fine; if you make everyone the same, then they'd make for a very boring lot. But the way Nathanos reacts to every little thing concerning you, the player, and nearly everyone whose name isn't Sylvanas Windrunner just...rubs me the wrong way. Absolutely wrong. He reminds me of a certain member of my family when they get into their very angry moods, but mostly he makes me think of all the people, kids and adults, I've had to put up with over the years that were just so...negative. Angry. Sarcastic. That kind of thing, all rolled into one little ball. What really bothered me the most about him, what really cemented my complete and total contempt for him (not even his tragic backstory does very little in drawing much sympathy out of me, considering he acted the same way, albeit not so antagonistically, when he was alive), was going to the Orgrimmar Embassy and getting so much as a scoff and eye-roll when he mentions how you saved Azeroth from Sargeras and the Burning Legion. Like, okay, I get he doesn't care at all about the player (which makes me more than convinced he's jealous of the Horde PC stealing Sylvanas's attention away from him), but as the main character goes over in the story he should care about the safety of the world if Sylvanas, his Warchief, means that much to him.
> 
> There was going to be more to this, but I felt like adding another scene with just Nathanos by himself would serve as a separate, shorter one-shot; it would go over his thoughts about the Horde PC and Azeroth in general...which, in my honest opinion, he would hold in the same regard as everyone and everything else that _is still not Sylvanas Windrunner_. I find the possibilities of writing stories around this guy to be very low given what we know about him as he is now (him being alive might be explored a little more thoroughly, with or without shipping goggles on, but even then it's pushed to the wayside for his current characterization post-Legion and...I don't know if you want to call it development, since in BfA's alpha he was currently channeling Sauron with the whole 'there will be one Dark Lady to rule them all' shtick), as I see his potential to be no different than how Chris Metzen said Garrosh wouldn't get his own book because the pages would be filled with nothing but _KILL KILL KILL_.
> 
> I can understand if someone thinks this is a bash fic; after all, I drew on my past experiences as inspiration for Nathanos's characterization, which probably makes him come as more teeth-grindingly aggravating than usual. Like most of my _Warcraft_ fics, this came on a whim to tell a story, but here I use the main character to try to make sense of Nathanos and maybe put a little bit of sense ( _common_ sense) into him. But honestly, the way he is now in-game, it would not surprise me in the slightest if he wounds up becoming a full-fledged villain...which probably isn't too far from the truth if he stays that way. People give Sylvanas a lot of shit, but at least she's ruthlessly pragmatic about why she wants the Alliance dead and gone.

"Don't you get tired sometimes?"

Nathanos raises his head from the papers he's looking over ( _Logistics,_ she thinks, _Everything that's anything that could prove useful to the Warchief and the Horde for when we start to get on the move_ ), giving her a heavy-browed glare. "What kind of a stupid question is that?" he snipes. "I'm undead. Maybe there's something wrong with you, but I'm never tired."

She tries not to mimic a sigh. "No, sir, that's not what I meant."

"Well what else could it mean, girl?"

_Girl_. Always _girl_ or _darling_ or (and inwardly she scoffed and almost nearly rolled her eyes at the thought) _princess_ , never Caroline. Never Champion Caroline Whittaker or Courier Whittaker, for the way she was always on time running back and forth between places delivering messages to her superiors. Now, with Nathanos having taken a more proactive role with Lady Sylvanas taking on the mantle that never warmed beneath Vol'jin's shoulders (still bloodied, still torn, by Garrosh's hands), it's either one of those three or any derogative nickname under the sun; she's heard them all. "I mean," she begins, and it feels like putting one foot in front of her and taking that first step over the edge into the abyss, "aren't you tired of being…angry all the time?"

There's a subtle shift in his face, the kind of shift you can feel in the air as you can see the sky turning dark and the wind picking up strength when a storm is minutes away from happening. She keeps her feet firmly planted on the ground and her expression neutral when he says, "Excuse me?"

"I understand I'm acting insubordinate, but it's not good for morale," Caroline says. "There's praise and there's criticism; sometimes there needs to be a bit of tough love in order for someone to get the right idea and strive for it."

"I don't need to show love to inspire my troops. Why should I? I'm their boss, not their friend. They don't want to learn, that's their business. The Warchief can always replace them."

"That's the thing: How much is too much?"

"Too much? You think my anger is 'too much?'" Nathanos scoffs and shuffles the paper he'd been reading to the back of the sheaf in his hands. "Do you have anything up there in that head of yours? There's no such thing as 'too much'. I'd like to call it 'never enough.' You can say it does my soul good, being angry all the time, for where else can I draw my energy from? Hmm? Any ideas? No? You shouldn't assume, girl. You know how the phrase goes, I take it? Yes, I think you do. I sure hope so."

That's another thing Caroline wonders if he gets tired of: being a smartass…but she keeps her mouth shut. "Not everyone can fall in lie and handle that much…energy," she says tentatively. "Some of them go AWOL."

"Again, not my problem. They want to run, then Light bless them. Personally I'd rather have anyone that deserts the Warchief put to a firing squad and left to rot in the ground, but I don't have the final say. They're no better than the…king, his dog on a leash, and the rest of their barnyard friends. Common chattel, I tell you." He pauses, peers at Caroline over the top of the sheaf. "You thinking of going AWOL, girl?"

"No, sir. Not at all." And that's the truth, despite all the times she's felt tempted to pack her few belongings and strike south into the Plaguelands where the Argent Crusade—now absorbed into the newly revived Silver Hand—would grant her amnesty. She would have done it a long time ago. If she really thought about it, she should have done it once she saw Garrosh instead of Thrall in Grommash Hold and every country west and south of Durotar was getting steamrolled, bombed, by the Horde war machines. But morbid fascination of the domino effect and her own curiosity won out over common sense, and against her better judgment (as she always liked to remind herself, and found to be doing so more often once Vol'jin was put to the pyre) went along the roller coaster that threw Warchief after Warchief off the ride. _Ya mean Musical Warchiefs,_ Paul Kensington would correct her, but Caroline likes to think there needs to be more than just one person quickly succeeding the other over a year before it can be properly called that.

It came as a surprise when Vol'jin named Sylvanas his successor, and more of a shock when she started to go on the offensive against the Legion on the Broken Isles. Then the assault in Stormheim happened, sudden in its ferocity as it was that King Varian's own son would order such an attack, and for a while the Pillars of Creation were forgotten. It happened again in Suramar just before the Nightfallen moved in on Elisande, but that's on both Tyrande and Liadrin for not keeping their soldiers ( _their brats,_ Caroline sniffs disdainfully) from acting childish, as well as Vereesa _once again_ stepping out of line by claiming the Silver Covenant were 'going wide' where it concerned picking off rampant withered and constructs patrolling the barrier.

Once the Nighthold had fallen and the fighting in Stormheim was isolated to Blackhawk's Bulwark and Whisperwind's Citadel (among a few others throughout the Isles), Sylvanas redirected the bulk of their forces back onto the Broken Shore, and that was the last anyone heard from until the portal to Argus was ripped open.

_That's more than Vol'jin would have ever done,_ Paul Kensington would tell her. _And it's more good than Garrosh would have done, if he were capable of it. But she ain't no Thrall._

No. Thrall was active, defending his people where it mattered as much as he campaigned for some semblance of peace between the Horde and the Alliance. He was always present, out in the daylight, granting shelter for the Forsaken and the Sin'dorei in the years following the Third War. Even when he had passed the mantle to Garrosh to assist the Dragonflights in the wake of the Shattering (to much grumbling and relief from the orcs when he left), Thrall still advocated for balance. True pacifism, he had once said, would go against the Horde's very nature…but they had just as much right to live their lives in peace as the Alliance did (and always advocated).

Sylvanas…Sylvanas is quiet, cunning; there's no denying the opinion, the fact, that Sylvanas is always scheming. There's a mind in her head that runs like clockwork, unending in its revolutions with little pause or regard to the short-term consequences if they don't play into the culmination of the long-term. If she says one thing, then it's safe for Caroline (or anyone for that matter) to assume she means it in another way opposite to what most think. Pacifism, she had once told her, will never sit well with the Horde so long as the Alliance exists. There comes a time when words don't suffice anymore.

Hence the azerite. Hence the war machines being built to utilize its properties. Hence the Kor'kron drills conducted in Orgrimmar, the Dreadguard in the Undercity, the goblin sappers and engineers performing safety tests on prototype azerite bombs on Scuttle Coast by the Great Sea. Hence Lor'themar's frequent visits to the embassy (for what Caroline isn't sure, but she keeps hearing the words 'traitors' and 'void elves' thrown around) and Gallywix strolling around the Engineering Works with that diamond-tipped cane swinging back and forth as if he owned the place (and he probably does).

There will be peace…peace for the Horde, at least, and with this much activity going on Sylvanas intends to ensure it at any and all costs. It's not something Caroline wants anything to do with, but she has always been a believer in seeing something through to the very end. Not the end of the Alliance, but an end to the fighting, the constant headbutting after an otherworldly threat has been dealt with.

_I need to see for myself what'll happen to her,_ Caroline told Paul once. _I need to see what's going to happen to us._ There were still lesser val'kyr to assist in raising new undead, but of the Nine that came with Sylvanas upon leaving Northrend only four remain. Four more lives for Sylvanas to live and burn through before she lived and endured the final one, until that was snuffed out and only the eternal Darkness awaited her. (Awaited them all, and what awaits Nathanos.)

"Then you have no right to complain," he spits. "I'll do whatever I damn well please. They either listen to me and live, or they don't and die. Don't be daft, princess, it's that simple."

_I wonder if you get that,_ Caroline muses sardonically. Instead, she asks, diplomatic as can be: "What do we live we for then?"

Nathanos stops again, lowers the papers and stares at her as though she's suddenly restored of undeath. "Are you kidding me?"

"No, sir," she says.

"You better be."

"I'm not, sir. I want to know what we live for. What you think."

Nathanos sets the sheaf down and shakes his head. "I don't believe it," he says under his breath, not even bothering to be discreet. "I can't believe my Lady puts her faith in you. Why? Just why?" He makes a show of looking up at the ceiling and shrugging at whatever deity or cosmic force might be listening to him. "There has to be someone in this shit-heap that has their head on straight."

"Sir?"

"You know what your purpose in life is?" Nathanos shoots at her, turning around suddenly. "You know what I think your purpose is?"

"What's that, sir?"

"I think your purpose is to fight the _Alliance_ ," he hisses. "Your purpose is to march down their forests, march down their mountains and their rusted vaults, march down their bridges and their rivers, march down their streets, march down their cities and string their leaders right the fuck up. Every last one of them." He counted them off on each finger: "Malfurion and his silent whore. The useless gnome in his faulty mech-suit. The false prophet. The Council of Hammers that strike each other instead of the Horde. Mad Dog Genn. That old fossil, Turalyon, and his elven arm candy. And the _king_ ," he sneered. "The boy-king whose balls have yet to drop. Your purpose in life, girl, is to see every last one of those chucklefucks dead. Every last one…and when their heads start rolling in the streets and their bodies raised to serve the Dark Lady, then their cities will go. Stormwind and Ironforge and Darnassus and that scrap heap in Azuremyst. We raze them to the ground until not even the ashes remain. That's your purpose, girl. That's your prerogative in life, and you will not want for any other if I have anything to say about it."

Caroline nods, takes it all in. It makes sense. With the Alliance decimated and no one to retaliate against them, their numbers would swell to unprecedented heights. They would be free from the pain and frustration of clashing with them time and time again. They would have to put up with feeling the glory and warmth of the Light. They would live in Darkness, and they would be eternal. (She doesn't tell Nathanos that there have been quiet rumblings among the Forsaken about their right to die, their disapproval with the direction the Dark Lady is taking them in. She doesn't tell him that it doesn't solve their reproduction crisis, doesn't tell him that with each death that comes from in-fighting and the march of time—that unrelenting, inevitable march that few mortals in the world can avoid—will never slake the Void's hunger. Their deaths will not stop the Darkness from claiming them in the end…and laughing all the while.) "So that's what you believe," she says.

"Right," he drawls, sarcastically. "I'd rather make flower crowns and hold hands with everyone so we can extoll praises to the Holy Light while Genn runs off his leash like a dog needing to take a piss. Are you really that stupid, girl? What the fuck else would I believe in?"

"My apologies, sir. I think it's a very ambitious goal to have," Caroline lies. "But how do you know for sure it'll happen? The Alliance might have suffered their setbacks with the loss of their king and armaments, but they're still just as strong as they were when Orgrimmar was sieged."

"You have to be blind to not see what's going on around here. The Lady has plans, girl. She's got aces upon aces up her sleeves that'd make a gambler think twice about his next move."

"Might can't make right if the brains aren't there to support it."

" _Thank you, Captain Obvious._ You oughta be given a badge for that stellar observation."

"But say if they strike back," Caroline persists. "Say they hit harder than we expected of them. Say they have a weapon, like the Blight or something similar, at their disposal that can instantly vaporize our forces. Shouldn't that matter?"

"You honestly think the Alliance are capable to come up with something that destructive?"

"They have the Vindicaar, too, don't they? And it's not just Silithus where the azerite's emerged, is it? There are deposits cropping up all over the world. They had to have tapped into one of them in a place the Horde can't reach."

"We've got scouts tracking their movements and assassins taking them down as we speak. It's what they get for attacking us in Silithus, and it's what they get for attacking us in Stormheim."

"Sir, I think we need to be careful," Caroline says. "Especially the Forsaken. If the Alliance are smart, they'll target the val'kyr: the lesser ones and the Four."

"Anduin is a fucking moron. And one day, Genn's going to bite off more than he can chew and get his head blown off for good measure. You forget we have abominations, girl. Ghouls and skeletons, too. Whatever the Warchief can raise, she will put them through the motions. This is the conviction the Alliance lacks. This is the one dark power they don't have at hand."

"Undead like that can be made anytime, and the Forsaken are finite no matter how many are raised." Caroline stares at him, and it bothers her that she can sense how much she's beseeching him. "I'm just one person, sir. My word means next to nothing, but I think you should bring this up to Lady Sylvanas. She'll listen to you."

He waves her off. "We'll be fine. There's nothing to worry about."

"There will be once people start dropping and the Alliance pushes north. One of these days, they're going to attack Undercity and we're not going to be ready for when that happens."

"The Undercity is indefensible."

"For how long, though?"

"As long as the Warchief remains in power, it will never fall. Quit your whining."

"And if it falls, what then?" Caroline asks. "Sir, some of the Forsaken have only known the Undercity as their home. If that falls, that's it. That's the end of their world as they know."

"They can rebuild it."

"I don't know, sir. Some of them aren't soldiers; they're trying to get by like everybody else. How are they going to fight back?"

"Simple: they run."

"And if they get caught?"

He shrugs. "Then they die. That's war, girl. It's not supposed to be pretty."

_No, but you'd rather glorify it and revel in it if it means Lady Sylvanas can pay attention to you longer than she has to._ She bites the inside of her cheek, focuses on the taste of copper wetting into her tongue, and asks, "Does it bother you?"

He rolls his eye. "Again with the questions. Don't you ever get tired?"

"It's my last question, sir. I promise."

"Then get on with it."

"Does it bother you that you don't care? I mean, we just fought a war against the Burning Legion that determined the fate of Azeroth. We won, but if we had lost then we would all be dead. That, and Azeroth would have wakened and turned into a Dark Titan. Sargeras would have fulfilled his Burning Crusade and taken the fight to the Void."

Nathanos shrugs again. "Yes. So?"

"So…shouldn't it matter to you that we're all still here because of everyone's efforts on Argus?"

"Why should it concern me? No. Better yet, why should I even care about them? Their accomplishments mean nothing to me. So they saved the world from another threat and we go back to fighting each other. Big deal. I don't give a shit about them. Everyone always praises them. They could be taking a shit from the Blue Child and they'll get a fucking pat on the back because they made a splash in the ocean. Good for them! Light bless them! You'd think they were fucking gods—untouchable! Invisible! Fight the power and all that hokey-pokey bullshit!"

"Well, adventurers can be very determined when the need arises."

"That's why people can't stop stroking them! They're fucking hobos that think they're gods, and people keep spoon-feeding them that horseshit! The praise ought to go to the people that give those poor excuses of heroes the orders to take down the existential threat, the traitor to the cause, the enemy of everyone and everything that stands against them! Why should they have to be exemplified all the time when we're the ones that give you shmucks the clearance to chop a few heads, burn a few buildings, and get the ripples in the water going? There are no heroes here, girl, only monsters! And I am the monster the Dark Lady unleashes on Azeroth! If anyone should sing praises and exalt her to godly heights, it's her—her and no other! And gods never die."

_The Titans would like to have a word with you,_ Caroline thinks. _Ah, and Argus. And Y'Shaarj, too. So many other gods and god-like figures I can think of off the top of my head._ "I see," she says.

"I sure hope you do, girl. She gave you life! She gave you meaning! And I am here to enforce it. I am here to give you purpose—your only purpose. Any other would be a waste of time and energy on your part and mine."

"What about Lady Sylvanas's?"

Nathanos levels her a cool look brimming with fire ready to spill over. "I wouldn't suggest that," he rumbles.

"I have no intention. But what about you, sir?"

He sighs explosively. "I've already told you—"

"You at least care about Lady Sylvanas, right?"

"I live and serve by the Warchief's will. I am her Champion, her right hand man. I am duty-bound to her."

"That's why you have that new body, right? She must have done something with your old one." She gestures at him, slouched over the desk with his hands splayed on the desk. Big, meaty hands that don't quite gel with his short, stocky frame. There's a mustache and goatee combo that wasn't present on his face before, crimson eyes peering through an ashen grey face that Caroline can't picture him having. Then again, she's always had a hard time trying to imagine what the worse-looking of the Forsaken were like before undeath. "You weren't as active back then," she continues, "but ever since she gave you that body, whatever she did to find it, you've been doing a lot more than you did in the past."

"I'm not going to repeat myself," he says. "Either pay attention or get lost."

"You're right, though: Lady Sylvanas gave me life and a meaning to it. She gave me a choice, and I'm sure she gave you one, too. So, in that regard, we're both indebted to her."

"And your point being…?"

"My point is that you should care about the world if you want to see Lady Sylvanas live another day. She's worth fighting for. The val'kyr won't last forever." Caroline pauses to gather her thoughts, and beats Nathanos to the punch when she says, "I know you care about her, sir; to what extent, I'm not sure, but I can tell. I know she cares about you, too, but again, I don't know by how much. She's all bark and too much bite, so it's kind of hard to tell most of the time if she's putting up a front or just, well, being herself. I'm just saying," she adds, at the deepening frown curdling on his face, "It wouldn't hurt to at least think of that when you're out there fighting—"

"And what would you know?" Nathanos spits. "Why should I owe the world anything? Why should she?" He makes a disgusted sound and turns away from her in the chair. "I've heard enough. Get out of here."

"Sir, I—"

"Now, girl! Before I make you."

"Yes, sir," Caroline says, nods, and walks out.

Paul's waiting her a few feet past the embassy, and when she meets up with him they walk together through the looming arch separating the Valley of Spirits from the Valley of Strength. They take a left, following the path that leads them along the stairway that goes deeper into the canyon, Grommash Hold rising like a black, spike-riddled helmet on their right. "I told you he wasn't gonna listen," he says, when they've put more than enough distance away from prying ears and eyes. "Why'd ya even ask him?"

She shrugs. "It was worth a shot. That, and it always hankered me whenever I saw him."

"I kinda liked him better when he gave you a little praise and then turned around an' say not to slack off; at least he showed he cared but didn't wanna put his 'eart on his sleeve. Now he just looks at ev'ryone like they're gutter rats he'd rather step on if they so much as glance at 'im."

"I think it's that new body of his," Caroline says in a hushed voice. "He wasn't always like that. Now he's—"

"A bigger asshole than he used ta be," Paul sneers. "And that's all he feels like doin', ya know?"

"We weren't all like that back then."

"Nah. Maybe not. But you have ta wonder if some people are just born that way: angry, depressed, obnoxiously happy."

"I can't say I've ever met another Forsaken or undead who was that happy to be, er, alive. Just indifferent or, well, as normal as being undead can be."

"Or mentally deficient."

Caroline nods. "Or that. I guess it's a good thing I went in and not you. The Blightcaller would have made you wished you were never brought out of the grave if you spoke to him like that."

"I don't give a shit what he thinks 'bout me. All that matters to me…is da positive. The good feels." Paul nods buoyantly. "I like it when people say I did a good job. I like the money they give me and the presents; I still got that rainbow generator back when we were in Felwood. Still in prime condition after all these years, if I do say so m'self."

"I don't mind the praise," Caroline says. "I welcome it…but if I'm doing something wrong, I want someone to let me know so I can make things better. And if it happens to be one of those situations where they can't be fixed, then I want to try to make the best of it and go on with my life from there. Not that I should be the espousing all this; you and I have done some pretty skeevy shit while the Alliance and Horde were butting heads."

Paul scoffs. "All for a good cause."

"Not all of our deeds were good, you know."

"No," he says, more seriously. "Nah, they weren't…but that's why we're still alive. That's why King Asshole Supreme back there's still kicking, too. I wouldn't let 'im get to ya, because if ya let him then he wins."

"He hasn't won much of anything," she murmurs a little morosely. "None of us have. So we're just going through the motions. Some go through the same thing over and over again. Others decide to switch tracks and adapt them to the newly defined motion. Does that make sense?"

"I getcha. I'm sure Lady Sylvanas will think of somethin'. Woman's allus got a plan in mind. We'll get our stride back once we start movin'." Paul laughs. "Hey, maybe then the Blightcaller will get the stick out of his ass. How's about that?"

"That would be nice," she says, but Caroline thinks otherwise. She thinks that finding something or someone else to enslave with an ancient artifact won't change anything beyond granting them the means to create more Forsaken and bestow them the most powerful shield that can keep the Darkness at bay. It won't change the Forsaken that are grumbling about Lady Sylvanas. It won't change the Forsaken that are hunkering down in the stairwells at night, rolling smokes they don't smoke and don't serve any purpose but to provide ambience, lamenting their state and expressing sullen jealousy toward all the mortals that have the gift of death. It won't change people like Nathanos; it won't change them at all.

People like him are so consumed by their own demons they may not even bother changing at all.

_Maybe they like just the way they are,_ and that thought stings. All that effort of the Alliance and the Horde putting aside their differences to save the world, defeating the enemy, and meandering through the periods of peace and occasional factional skirmishes until the next threat rolls around…and this is how Nathanos thanks them?

_I don't know how you can live like that, man. I just don't know how._ Caroline makes a frustrated sound and shakes her head.

Paul quirks a hairless brow at her. "Hey. Come on now," he admonishes gently. "Let's go get somethin' to vape. Getcher mind off things. I think Xan'tish has just the thing. You down?"

She frowns. It's a good thing that undead lungs are no longer needed to breathe underwater and another not to partake in an old pastime and the light, heady buzz that comes with it. On the other hand, troll magic is amazing; they do things that make Sin'dorei bloodthistle feel like painkillers. (With that kind of analogy, Caroline hopes it'll kill her foul mood and give her some mental entertainment while she's floating higher than a goddamn kite. She always wondered what it'd be like if someone, anyone, put Nathanos in his place. Like, really, put him in his place. How can the Warchief put up with him?)

_Your mind's wandering again, dear,_ she chides herself, and isn't that a terrible thing to be doing? So she turns to Paul, shrugs, and says, "Yeah, sure, why not. Lead the way." It'll almost make it seem like the whole day never happened.

Almost.


End file.
